


Vulnerability

by DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis



Category: The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Kidnapping, Loss of Virginity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Woman/Younger Man, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sadism, Seduction, Sexual Violence, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2738090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis/pseuds/DmitriDesgoffeUndTaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A multi-chaptered (hopefully) prose written in the style of letter-exchange (a nod to Les Liasons Dangereuses by Choderlos de Laclos, sorta) between Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis and his (probably only) confidante and private inquiry agent, J.G. Jopling, in which each describe the different courses of their individual (and sharply contrasting, for the most part) conquests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1: Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis to J.G. Jopling, Esq. (Lutz, 8 Dec. 19--)

I received your humble present in the small hours of the morning, ushered by none other than my own Clotilde, and am writing this letter (as of December 8, 19--, at half-past midnight) to thank you for your most excellent offering. 

It comforts me to know I can rely on your prowess for inquiries of distinct varieties, as I am always willing and eager to reward both loyalty and efficiency regarding the execution of all my affairs. 

But truly—where on Earth did you find her? 

She was exquisite, and made for a comfortable convert. How old was she? My best guess is she was about seventeen—you seem to know my preferences well, and I must commend your good taste.

Breaking her wasn't easy, however. 

She was a girl of spotless virtue, innocent in all regards despite her loveliness (I commend you again—she truly was thought up by the angels, from the wonderful visage of her barely present breasts to her eyes, azure as the palest sky despite the fright with which they greeted me). Before my charitable intervention, it seems, she was wholly uneducated in the ways of the world, as sheltered as if she'd spent her entire short life within the cloistered walls of a faraway convent (Did you spirit her away from one? If so, this just adds to my already brimming pleasure).

Shortly after her arrival, I approached her with masterful precision. Despite her initial apprehension, I managed to entice her natural curiosity with small conversation (a stray comment regarding the violet fabric of her frock, leading immediately to the inevitable “may I touch it?”, which then led us to further conclusions). 

Once I gained her temporary trust, I moved swiftly in pursuit of my goal—which would occur regardless of the method, but you know I enjoy being persuasive (but let us not ponder upon that). 

What followed must have indeed been a dizzying experience for our young protégé: 

Her lily-white skin lined with small, slightly raised goosebumps as my spidery hands traveled from the diversion brought forth by the neatly sewn texture of her frock to the elongated landscape of her quivering thighs, her frozen doe eyes hauntingly resting upon my very own as I managed to serve her with a small, inviting grin.

She did not respond in the way I anticipated, averting her frightened gaze from mine despite my attempts at establishing some imitation of friendliness. 

Clearly, I was going about seducing her in an entirely erroneous way. I had to switch strategies if I was to savour my success.

“I hope you're not frightened of me.” I said, retreating my hand from its enjoyable progression. 

I was still met with no response—I would be lying if I said I did not become slightly frustrated by the brick wall of her resistance to my obvious advances. 

“You don't have to be scared of me.” I immediately added, softening my voice to a comfortable level. “I'm not here to hurt you. In fact, I want to help you...”

The girl didn't seem to know what I was getting at, so I elaborated.

“I understand your family has been going through some difficulties...” I took her hand in mine, rubbing it softly. “I can't imagine how difficult that must be for you. But I think I can help you...”

(This line, as you know quite well, is tried and true—I have you gather my conquests from a certain portion of society for a reason).

Finally, a response (albeit not the expected one): 

Our young heroine crumbled into a sobbing heap upon my bed, her noble tears staining my velvet bedding with pristine wetness as I bore sole witness to her sorrows.

“It's alright, my dear. You don't have to cry...” I cooed as soothingly as I could, patting her rye-blonde hair with a firm hand as one would do to condescendingly console a small child.

She raised her eyes to meet mine once more, only this time, they were no longer filled only with fear. 

“You're very lovely.” I remarked, removing my gaze from hers and fixing it upon the floor as I felt her wide eyes follow mine.

It was clear from the incriminating rouge upon her cushioned cheeks that she had never heard similar words uttered (neither from some young suitor or other such admirer)—which made her melt like heated butter in the ready palm of my grasping hand. 

A trace of her original trepidation lingered upon the thickening air as I once again made an effort to court her. 

“I'd say, in fact, you're like a painting come alive,” I served up the flattery, strategically smoothing my jet-black hair as I gazed upon her with half-lidded eyes, appearing both mysterious and enticing. “Like a Greek statue come to life, a work Aphrodite herself would have to bow before.”

(It is extremely easy to seduce provincial girls, I must remark).

She, in turn, blushed deeply scarlet, not quite knowing how to react to the aggressive nature of my compliments (at least in the context of her pitiable inexperience—a condition I strove to remedy, if nothing more, for charity's sake). 

“You have beautiful skin...” I placed my eager hand upon her thigh once more, this time being met with a more receptive reaction. “White like a lily's, and soft like a petal.”

At this point, it was clear I was winning the ensuing power play. Thus, I became bolder, unhesitatingly moving my hand up the length of her lithe thighs, stopping only when I reached the crucial point of division. 

“Why don't you lay back and let me make you more comfortable?” I leaned in and settled her face-up upon my bed, her golden hair sprawling in waves like a halo around her winsome face as she slowly succumbed to my will. 

I proceeded to unbutton her lavender frock, relishing in the unraveling of the intrusive fabric and the revelation of a lovely pair of budding bosoms, which peaked like small mountains against the otherwise flat panorama of her thin torso.

“Beautiful...” I managed to breathe as I swooped down to greet these treasures, my slivered silver tongue lightly licking her raised nipples as she squirmed beneath me. 

I could feel myself growing stiff from anticipation as I reached down to remove her rather plain underwear (one could easily discern she hadn't any idea of undergarments beyond their practical use), discarding the pair at the foot of my bed before probing the moistened outline of her crevice with an icy finger. 

She audibly gasped at the first contact of her warmth against my frigid finger, quivering valiantly at my every touch with all the newness of a fledgling bloom being strewn by a stray gust for the very first time.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked as I explored the tightness of her interior with a single finger, lazily inserting and withdrawing it. 

Her azure gaze met mine, followed by more watercolour flush as she looked away. 

At this point, she was less seduced than confused, but I pressed on regardless, being a man with his priorities in order. 

“If you're not comfortable, we can stop...” I said, with absolutely no intention of doing this, as I teasingly tapped upon her pulsating clitoris, bending her to my sinister will using the novelty of her nubile body's sensations as bait. 

She extended no clear verbal response, still being confused above all else. Her body, however, told a different story, as the stalks of her thighs slowly parted before me.

“Very well.” I smirked, accepting the subtle invitation, wasting no time in entering the uncharted territory of her untouched temple.

I offered myself at her altar, thrusting at first gently so as to deflower her in the smoothest way possible, relishing in the incomparable feeling of my throbbing engine gradually tearing the natural resistance of her papier-mâché hymen, her crimson life-substance permeating our point of unison (and my previously white bed sheets—a stain I shall never dare wash) as she broke into pained whimpers in reprise to my every push. 

She shook with a tangled mix of vexation, despair, and pained pleasure as I held her in my arms. I, in turn, cemented myself deeper inside her as my movements gained momentum, migrating from the gentle consideration extended before a daisy-fresh girl on the cusp of being deflowered to the rougher motions of a rogue maximising his own pleasure at the expense of the same. 

My pleasure, you see, was inexplicably and irrevocably tied to the extent of her agony, multiplying in volume as I strove to make shambles of her once-spotless temple, flooding it with her own secretions as I forcefully pressed myself against her, lingering upon every distressed howl she gave as she succumbed to my invasion. 

Finally, as I dutifully pumped within her strained portico, she buckled under me, audibly sighing in ecstatic bliss as her entire body trembled in astonishment.

I followed shortly thereafter, emitting my own heated juices into the innermost regions of her previously intact interior.

It was only at this moment of insurmountable euphoria that I poignantly realized I'd never once bothered to ask for her name.


	2. 2. J.G. Jopling, Esq. to Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis (Lutz, Dec. 11, 19--)

Dear Boss: I received your letter in the early hours of the morning, reading with much pleasure. I am still tied in the investigation of your other business—the tangle concerning the concierge and friends. 

I've also been following the lawyer. I think you ought to have a conversation with him—something doesn't seem right. 

Regarding our other business, I sequestered the girl from the plain street. I don't know where she came from. I only recall she was riding a rusted bicycle at the time we crossed paths. 

I know your tastes well, having served Your Excellency for several months now. I hope I've proven myself worthy of your trust, and that you will make good on the offer we discussed over the phone previously. I am most eagerly anticipating your answer regarding this matter. 

My personal business is also peppered with spices—you are somewhat aware of the kind of life I lead. Just yesterday, I visited a little brothel on the outskirts of town, soliciting the services of one of its most renown members. 

The woman in question was much older than what you would be interested in, but I appreciate a gal with experience—and she had plenty to bring. 

Her name, if memory serves, was Adolphine Desgranges. Me guess she would be in her forties, or even early fifties. Really well-known among the bottom-dwellers. Nothing Your Excellency would concern himself with, but she was a pleasure. 

I called upon her door yesterday afternoon, drenched from the downpour as I conducted inquiries on Your Excellency's behalf. She was most gracious—planted a soft, wet kiss on my hallowed cheek without hesitation: truly worth every penny surrendered. 

The first course was simple, sir. She got down on her knees, rouged lipstick enveloping my form. She knows how to lubricate a pipe, I can attest to that. 

That tongue was the stuff of legends, sir. I almost surrendered to her dexterity, but was able to withhold my release despite her oral teasing—I am also vastly experienced, especially in the ways of brothel girls. 

After, we really got down to business. She could withstand rough handling—she was an experienced gal, not like those virginal little wallflowers Your Excellency prefers, who would break like glass under my foot. 

I pinned her to the dirty mattress, taking off my leather trench as I undid the intricate pattern of her corset (these brothel-dwellers always so eager to peddle their assets), smearing her cheap lipstick with my own dried lips, sir. She wore that trace upon her face for the rest of the night, along with the bite marks my fangs instilled upon her wrinkled lips. 

Brothel girls can handle coarse lovemaking. Especially older ones like this dear Adolphine. Sweet little thing could gyrate like nothing else. I even let her lead, she was so good. 

She mounted me like that painting of yours (sorry for the comparison). Boy, she could please a man, sir. There is nothing better than a girl who knows what she is doing—I don't know why you like them innocents sir: a seasoned whore is the only way to pleasure I know. 

Anyway, she ground me hard. Me gasped and grunted and she clenched her cunt so artfully, sir. Like I said, worth every penny, she was a delight. 

She even let me bite her nipples—not every girl will do this, you see—and I gave them a stretch, you should have seen how red they were after I was done with 'em. She had scars from other encounters, so I know she was used to the bites. 

I paid 'er well. I will visit more, I think. She pleased me well—truly lives to her reputation. You've no knowledge or interest in this, of course. I know you like them slightly green, but your private inquiry agent prefers them scarlet, sir. 

Looking forward, as always, to your next letter, sir.


	3. 3 Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis to J.G. Jopling, Esq. (Lutz. Dec. 14, 19--)

There is no question things are changing in Zubrowka, now. The old monarchy has essentially fallen apart, like the tattered edges of a forlorn tapestry—they've become less than useless, and the people no longer hold any faith in them. 

It is my understanding the prince abdicated the throne a few days ago. Made the headlines here (naturally) and abroad. If that's not a sign we've gone straight to the shitter, I don't know what is.

The blue-bloods of Zubrowka are trembling at the threat of Communism from the East—and rightfully so: those nasty manifestos are making rounds at universities everywhere, and today's misguided youth seems to see a glory in Marx entirely lost to most everyone else.

The dangers, however, are not only political or ideological. The war has been costly to us, I'm sure you're aware. Several years later, we're still recovering from our fateful alliances—who would have guessed? 

The Desgoffe-und-Taxis family, of course, remains unaffected by the twisting turns of these events, but the same cannot be said of the people of Zubrowka as a whole. 

I heard it said (meaning, I read it in the paper) the prices of bread are rising (how much does a loaf of bread even cost?) and that this has led to a spike in petty crime among the lower classes.

The news report also said the poor are resorting to what they vaguely term as 'desperate measures' to survive in the face of this rapidly sinking economy. It's clear we've hit an iceberg.

But with hard times come grand opportunities.

Grand opportunities, at least, for those smart enough to grasp them:

You see, yesterday, I was driving through the little streets of Lutz, on my way home from an important ZZ meeting (more details on that some other time), when our limousine was stopped by a peculiar-looking waif. 

“What's the fucking matter?! Why did you stop?!” I asked the driver, slightly irate (I was in a bit of a hurry to get home—you know how I dislike to linger longer than I must).

The driver gave me a confounded look before explaining the reason for his pause. 

“Sir, it's some girl. Says she wants to speak to you.” He looked uncomfortable as he told me this, looking at first to the raggedy girl shivering in the cold, then at me. 

“Very well. But tell her to make it snappy.” I replied, waving a hand. “I've got shit to do.” 

In retrospect, I'm not sure why I ever even agreed to hear her out. The best I can say for myself is curiosity got the better of me. 

I rolled down the frosted window and conferred with the petite stranger huddled near my car. 

The inquirer in question couldn't have been more than fifteen, rusty russet ringlets flowing from her slightly tilted head (I'm not sure whom she actually expected, if anyone), which, despite looking rather filthy, flatteringly framed her pleasantly round, tan-freckled face.

“Yes?” I uttered coolly, raising a brow in mild confusion as she tentatively approached.

“Um, mister.” She addressed me, her voice resembling the distinct sound of metal tapping on glass. “I was wondering...”

Her words trailed off at this instant, as if she were unsure how to proceed. 

“Wondering what?” I spat dryly—as I mentioned earlier, I was in rather a hurry to leave.

“Wondering...” Her tiny, dirt-tinged hands fidgeted with the frayed hem of her once-white dress (the cheap fabric obscured by a layer of soot). “If you perhaps needed some company.” 

She may as well have asked me to play a game of tennis. 

“What kind of company?” I asked, simply to torment her—I would be lying if I denied enjoying her struggle to eject the proposition. 

“You know...” Her gooseberry eyes began to water, never quite reaching the poignant point of tears, but bearing notable strain nonetheless. “Company.” 

Her small, skinned knees buckled slightly after this release—half-dreading, half-relieved. 

I accepted her offer, initially solely to prolong her anguish, which I found immensely amusing. 

Half an hour later, I entered the premises of Schloß Lutz, my small pet dutifully following my long, purposed strides with short little skips as I led the way up the whirling stairs to the master bedroom. 

“So tell me, what brings you to me tonight?” I asked, giving her a grin which may as well have been a grimace.

“I-I needed work.” She shivered as I gestured her to sit. 

“What's your line of work?” I adjusted my tie, feigning ignorance. 

“M-my aunt. She said to go to the street and look for work.” Her opalescent eyes pleadingly looked to mine. “Said I should talk to people with nice cars. That they could help.” 

“Oh?” My dry lips tugged into a small smile. “So you think I have a nice car?”

“I saw your car driving down the hill from a distance,” She continued dreamily, pressing her legs together. “It looked like the white horses. The horses that princes ride.” 

“And well? Do I look like your prince?” I joked, taking note of her musings. 

She gave me no answer, but blushed scarlet as the question tensely hung upon the atmosphere. 

“I do want to help you.” I softened my tone, kneeling to meet her velvety gaze (much in the manner of a prince—you have to play on their desires) with the hardened steel of my own. 

“Y-you do?” The luckless waif seemed almost surprised at my shameless pretense, which she mistook for genuine intent. 

“Surely,” I reassured her, brandishing my black handkerchief and wiping some stray soot from her cheek. “Why wouldn't I want to help a pretty girl like you?”

I conjured Clotilde shortly thereafter, slipping her a note with some very specific instructions (which will be revealed in due time). 

“Perhaps you would like to take a warm bath?” I proposed, seeing she was moderately coated with grime and would likely be receptive (if not downright appreciative) to the offer. 

She enthusiastically agreed, her youthful innocence clothing the connotations veiled within the naked villainy of my suggestion. 

I escorted her to the master bathroom and drew a steaming bath, which she dipped into thereafter.

Her scrawny body at first recoiled from the warmth of the bath water, finding it too scalding for her taste, but she soon became used to it and grew to enjoy the heat as my spidery hand grabbed a fistful of water and trickled it over her freckled form.

“You like the water?” I smiled as she giggled, closing her eyes as she braced herself against the oncoming droplets. 

I lathered the length of her auburn hair with my shampoo, rubbing thoroughly as her formerly dirty hair took on an elegant, silken texture. 

She, in turn, smiled broadly, playing with the accumulating bubbles as I ran my hands through her soapy strands. 

“I take it you enjoy the bubbles, too.” I felt almost domestic as I watched her svelte fingers pop each transparently vivid bubble as it dreamily floated towards her. 

“I like popping them,” She gave another chiming giggle. 

“Me too.” I reached for the soap and began to wash the skinny stalk of her downy, sun-kissed leg as she extended it. 

A diabolical idea entered the wicked threshold of my mind at this precise moment. My pallid hand absconded itself behind the thick layer of bath foam, relinquishing the bar of French lavender soap (the pretext for its progression) as my long fingers lightly brushed against her labia. 

She gave a coltish start in response—clearly, given her awe, she had never even experienced the soft caresses of a lover. 

“Sorry,” I apologized, trying my best to hide a budding smirk. “It's slippery.” 

I resumed my duties without incident, and allowed her to dry herself with a fresh towel, which she wrapped around her dripping body as I led her back to the room. 

Upon our re-entry, we were greeted by reliable Clotilde, who had done exactly as I requested. 

Exquisitely laid upon my bed were a sky-blue cashmere frock (ending slightly above the knee) and matching Oxford shoes (accompanied by knee-high woolen socks in eggshell white), followed by necessary undergarments. 

Words could not have justly described the extent of her reaction to this humble offering—never in her life had this unfortunate girl ever laid eyes upon such finery, much less had opportunity to wear it. 

“I thought you might need some fresh clothes.” I grinned, playing my part. 

She did not explicitly thank me, but the look on her eyes conveyed all needed gratitude as she slipped on the frock, carefully rolling up her new socks and taming the thin laces of her cognac-brown Oxfords into neat little knots. 

“I do think they suit you.” I couldn't help but to betray myself with a faint blush as I summed her up with a sweeping glance, observing the way her small but perky bosom pitched the cashmere of her frock ever so subtly. 

“Y-you think so?” She looked down, burning scarlet, tucking an errant strand of moistened hair behind her ear. 

“Very much.” I nodded. “In fact, I think I'd like to take this vision of loveliness out for a stroll this evening—and maybe some dinner. What say you?” 

Predictably, she was more than happy to oblige. We proceeded to spend the next few hours idling around the promenade (did I mention she paces in skips?), and settled on some dreadful little restaurant serving some ill-conceived, reaching imitation of German cuisine (her suggestion, not mine). 

By evening's end, we found ourselves within the stifling confines of my bedroom once more. 

“Ah!” I exclaimed, noticing a freshly laid vase containing about two dozen white roses. “I see they've brought the roses.” 

“They're lovely...” The little doe wandered over to me, curious about the flowers. 

“Would you like me to pluck one for you?” I reached for a rose, removing it from the rest and handing it to her. 

She tangled her small hand around the long stem, wincing when she unwittingly pricked herself with the sharp tip of a thorn. 

“You're bleeding...” I remarked, watching a crimson bead of blood flowing down her ivory hand. 

I then took her hand in mine, pressing the finger in question to my lips and sucking it dry.

“Better?” I released her hand.

Her luscious auburn ringlets bobbed like springs as she nodded in affirmation. 

“You know, you look a bit tired.” I remarked. “Perhaps you should rest a while...”

She shifted from sitting at the edge of my bed to comfortably sinking into the cushioned cover: a cherub in careful repose astride a creamy cloud. 

“Doesn't that feel nice?” I winked, bravely getting closer as she released the rose from her hand. 

My hand once again began its precarious journey into the untamed wilderness of her mysterious interior, easing along the pathway her quaking thighs paved as I approached. 

“You have such sweet legs,” I caressed the healing scabs of her skinned knee as she bent it, allowing my hand to tumble down her inner thigh as if propelled by an avalanche. 

She folded her arms, firstly looking at me but subsequently withdrawing her gaze, focusing instead on the distant ceiling as I removed the wedged fabric of her fresh undergarment. 

I held the newly shed cloth in my hand, absentmindedly stretching the novel elastic before losing interest and discarding it on the floor.

“You don't need to be afraid of me,” I cooed silkily, tucking my square hand inside the warm cashmere of her dress and moistening the shuddering outline of her lips with the artful stroke of a swift finger. “I'm not going to hurt you...”

I unwrapped her present, loosening the small series of buttons cloistering her bony ribs, unburdening her from the static confines of the hugging garment. 

“Let's see what we have here...” I peeked at the twin peaks of her mosquito-bite breasts, as raised as they were narrow, barely extending from the galaxy of freckled constellations lining her birdcage chest. 

The look upon her full-moon face conveyed some level of distress (it was plaintively obvious she had never done the work of which she spoke upon our meeting) when I cupped her small bust, giving her a light squeeze. 

“I'm not going to hurt you...” I took her in my arms, patting the smooth rust of her crown and gliding my svelte-fingered hands down the complex spirals of her ringlets, pressing her close to my chest as I tentatively pricked her rose. 

She let out a shrill cry as I plucked the petals I lusted after, holding her hostage in the vice grip of my folding arms. 

“Shhh...” I whispered, quickening my pace. “I'm not going to hurt you.” 

Her disheveled, once-pristine curls bounced with every thrust I gave, her limp body resting like a rag doll in the stronghold of my limbs as her mewling moans dimly faded in the air. 

“I swear I won't hurt you...” I broke my promise as quickly as I uttered it, tearing every treasured vestige of her purity for the sake of fleeting pleasure. 

My hips roughly pumped inside as I held on, firmly astride her until the sweet moment of our joint culmination. 

Her shrill shrieks permeated the air in a dolorous haze as I delivered the last of my savage barrage against her previously impermeable interior, my coral lips finding her parted cherry ones and enveloping her heaving sighs as I released myself inside her. 

Needless to say, I slept alone that cold December night.


	4. 4. J.G. Jopling, Esq. to Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis. (Lutz. Dec. 17, 19--)

Happy to hear your stroll into town turned out to be serendipitous, sir. One can only imagine what the poor little dolly must have thought of you. All good things, I hope.

Today's letter is strictly business. I've been following the lawyer, like you instructed. His reputation precedes him—one of the most brilliant legal minds in all Lutz, if the hearsay proves true. Seems to have a lot of work, aside from being the executor of the Madame's estate (yours, of course). This may be of some interest to you—he handles the legalities of your mother's old hotel, the Grand Budapest. You may recognize the connection to the concierge (of course, how could ya forget? That boy of his broke yer nose right proper, didn't he? But I made him kiss the wall that night—would have smashed his little brown skull in, too, if yer folks weren't watching). 

Anyway, I thought this would be interesting to point, since it seems to be a connection. If you need anything to be done—inquiring, perusing, persuading, vanishing acts—just breathe the word and I'll be on the case (so long as you provide my fee, of course). 

That said, haven't had time to patronize the girlies as of late (they must miss their inquisitions), or to look for any more presents on your behalf. You'll probably be grateful for this when my job is done, sir—all good things require sacrifices.

But I have rested from inquirin' a bit, don't think otherwise. I'm not a machine, though my knuckles may be lined with brass brash enough to kick yer ass. 

I joke. 

Mendl's is my main sustenance as of late, sir (fast and easy, the way I like). Truly out of this world (I know your opinion, rightly disagree). A Courtesan au Chocolat is enough to cheer me up after a soppy, rainy day of inquirin' in the mud and grime. Of course, a bottle of whiskey wouldn't hurt, either (send some, if you'd like, ya inquiry agent will always appreciate). 

By the way, I sometimes see the boy who broke yer nose there. Talkin' to some baker chick who makes 'em sweets. Blonde. Odd birthmark. Lovely little thing. Ya might change yer mind on Mendl's if you laid eyes on 'er.

It was just a joke, sir. I'll keep ya posted on the Kovacs fella. 

Do send the whiskey.


	5. 5. Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis to J.G. Jopling, Esq.  (Lutz. Dec. 20, 19--)

I'm glad to hear you've been productive. That's what I pay you for. 

Unlike you, however, I can lay claim to more exciting adventures, which I shall document as follows: 

A few days ago, I commissioned a painting from one of Zubrowka's rising artists—some bohemian, Opium-smoking idiot, I don't recall his name, but word around the watering hole is that he's quite the artist. Anyway, I sought him out and commissioned a painting from him, as a joke of sorts. I told him to use his imagination to discern what I could possibly like (I expected fruits, flowers, all sorts of still life--even animals--or some sterile woman holding a curious object).

Little did I know the bohemian would actually deliver. 

I insisted on sitting at the painting (mainly just to aggravate him—when you are bored and rich, you have to amuse yourself in any possible way). The artist surprisingly agreed to these terms, supplying me with a date and time.

An hour before /the hour/ came (on the day he specified), I made my way to the artist's studio, if nothing else simply to peruse the establishment. 

However, upon my entry, I discovered the model who was to sit for the painting I commissioned was already present (on a velvet couch, as is typical for these bohemians to place their models).

She was absolutely beautiful. From what the artist later disclosed, she was fifteen years old (a foundling from some small orphanage in the outskirts of Lutz). Her light brown hair flowed in loose waves, reaching her lower back before succumbing to the air. For the purposes of the commissioned painting, she bore a crown of flowers (various types of diminutive flora) upon her head. 

“Are you the girl who is sitting for the painting?” I asked, curious.

“I am,” she replied, unfazed by my presence. “I'm waiting for Herr Wolff.”

“I see.” I remarked, being at a loss for words—she was just so beautiful. “Mind if I join you for a bit of light conversation?”

She agreed, and for the next half-hour, we discussed trivial subjects of her choosing. 

“Did you know I'm the person who commissioned this painting?” I finally asked, peering at her lanky form. 

She shook her head, smiling slyly. 

“I am.” I confirmed, placing a hand on her bended leg. “I wanted something unique, and word says the artist who is about to paint you fits the bill...”

“Oh really?” She approached me, placing a small hand on my chest. “What do you consider unique?” 

A tilt of her head and I was forever gone.

“Well....” I struggled to maintain my composure, digging for words as the moments passed. “A girl who can make a man lose his train of thought without even realizing it.” I joked, laughing sheepishly. “ Like you.” 

“You really think I'm special?” Her blue eyes lit up, as if nobody in the world had ever distinguished her from the ordinary. 

“Yes, you're very beautiful.” I offered the usual lines. “If you weren't, I don't think you'd be sitting for a portrait right now...”

The girl smiled in turn, her hands draped across her torso (as if to convey she wasn't entirely comfortable posing in the nude). 

“In fact, I think you're so beautiful I can't keep away from you...” I said, leaning close to her and kissing her deeply, my hungry lips enveloping her small pink ones. 

“You really are just like a goddess...” My index finger trailed along the girl's faintly visible chest, pausing upon the tiny peaks of her breasts and clenching each in my wishing fists before migrating down her slender torso, ultimately relinquishing control as I crossed the border of her Venus mound. 

“How do you expect me to stand before you?” I asked, my eyes half-closed as I dropped the line, casting her a sultry glance. “When you are this fucking beautiful...” 

The model's cheeks turned beet-red before she could have a chance to respond. 

“Your legs....” I observed, traveling down her shapely stalks with my slim hands, until I reached her delicate ankles. “Just divine.” 

I parted her spindly legs, which she seemed to hold no protest to, inserting my face directly against her member. 

“You smell lovely...” I purred, pressing myself even closer as her small limbs laid outstretched in an effort to accommodate me.

Seeing no protest on her precocious behalf, I proceeded to do what came naturally, taking a clever lick of my tongue against her left wall, slowly progressing to the right.

The young model squirmed amidst the newness of this carnal pleasure, barely able to contain herself as she quivered before me.

I crept down to the lovely entrance to her temple, delicately inserting my tongue therein, flexing it as I strove to reach uncharted depths inside her. The young girl, in reprise, swung her legs wildly, glowing as she relished in the wholly new sensation of my teasing tongue venturing the inner walls of her sex organ.

Her small hands rustled my ebony hair as my tongue darted in and out of her aching orifice, shifting from sampling the musky taste of her delicate interior to her throbbing clitoris, which I enveloped with gusto in one swoop move, gently sucking on the minute pearl before releasing it.

I repeated the motion, tapping the tip of my tongue on the innermost part of its skin as her soft thighs gently caressed each of my cheeks, her insides shivering with every calculated flick I gave.

I switched technique, inserting a long finger within her oscillating organ, already sufficiently provoked by my previous machinations. I explored her smooth walls, caressing them fondly as she sighed in bliss, her fluttering obsidian lashes palpitating like the broad wings of a butterfly. 

I withdrew my finger, subsequently inserting my tongue and masterfully thrusting inside her until I felt her legs give a slight wobble, her warm release drenching my dry coral lips as I pushed inside her one last time. 

“You taste lovely, too...” I teased, licking the emission from my lips and placing myself astride her, my throbbing member finding its way into her small entrance as I held her in place.

She shuddered as I entered her, not saying a word, her liquid eyes looking to me with a mix of curiosity and fear as she endured the first difficult moments of her deflowering (despite her vixen talk, she was no more familiar with the ways of men than any normal girl her age).

“You've never done this before, have you?” I held her, positioning her hips at a more comfortable angle as I proceeded to tarnish her purity, tearing her sacred garden asunder with a series of forceful thrusts. 

She quivered and moaned in response, being in too much pain to say or do anything else, her little hands trying to hold onto my broad shoulders. 

I pressed on, despite her subtle whimpers and sobs, filling the void in her crevice with the length of my yearning engine as I kissed her slow, the pale blush of her watery cheeks contrasting with the brushing of my scarlet flush as I pumped atop her, pressing my face close to hers amidst laboured exhalations.

The subtle perfume of shed violets filled the small studio as we peaked in joint climax. I glided my spidery fingers down her silken locks, disheveling the once-pristine flower crown previously adorning her head, letting loose the tiny flowers from her hair as I discharged, shuddering and sweat-drenched, at the core of her being.


	6. 6. J.G. Jopling, Esq. to Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis (Lutz. December 22, 19--)

I do hope your painting turns out to be what you hoped for, sir.

Incidentally—have you taken 'Boy With Apple' from the library yet? Better do that sooner rather than later: they can't bestow what they can't find, can they?

That said, it was good seeing you again, even if our visit to the lawyer was brief. I have a feeling he will not be signing many documents from now on. 

By the way, have you seen the mummy exhibit at the Lutz Kunstmuseum? I hear they've got an excellent sarcophagus collection—something which may be of interest to you, sir, if you happen to find yourself bored and in need of an outing.

Speaking of which, I just happened to go on a rather decadent outing this past week, sir. Or rather, an inning, since the events took place in this old widow's home. 

Ya see, this widow, a Countess (you may know her, in fact, but I am not one to drop names) as it happens, invited me to her home. We met at an old, rickety bar (what a surprise to see her there, but upon learning more of her, this impression rapidly faded), a favourite of mine. 

I ordered the whiskey, as usual. Was playing a game of poker with some old pals when she asked to join in. We all did a double-take upon her entry—a Countess, at a place like this? Unimaginable, surely. Why, it'd be like seeing you at one of the brothels I visit, or like seeing a cat not landing on its feet when thrown from a great height. Unexpected, in other words.

She comes to us dressed in finery, some shimmering silk gown and a string of pearls hanging from her neck. Out of place with us old harrowed hit-men, but she insists on playing a game. 

We are amused—what could a Countess possibly know of drinking hard liquor and playing card games in a bar as cloudy as a smokestack? 

She sits, orders a vodka from a dirty glass, and picks up the cards. 

“I take it you're surprised to see me at a place like this?” The purported lady asks, peering at us with cunning emerald eyes as she scanned the room, the ghost of a wrinkle tracing itself upon her curling lips.

We are taken aback—despite her age, she is a great beauty. 

“So ya wanna play cards with us, m'am?” I break the ice, posing the question as I take a swig from my drink.

“Only if you think you could beat me in a game of poker...” She purrs at me, a knowing sparkle in her eye extending a secret challenge aimed squarely in my direction. 

We accept her offer, and play for quite a length of time. Well, whaddya know? The old cat beat us senseless—she was skilled in the art of deception, that wily woman!

A few rounds of drinks later and we are all pleasantly drunk, a mirthful buzz overtaking the atmosphere even as the bar prepares to close for the night. Laughter fills the air as we exchange dirty jokes (that woman could tell some truly nasty ones, I tell ya!), and pass around a fine cigar. Eventually, someone produces a bottle of some real petrol stuff—homemade—and we all polish it clean. Even the lady had a few, the woman could hold more than her own not just in regards to cards.

I bid farewell to the fellas for the night, as the lady leads me to her home. It is a well-known manor, mind ya not as fancy as yer house, but it is fancier than any other place I ever been. We enter and she takes me to her room. A nice room, a bit decadent for my own tastes, and definitely a lady's room with all the pink and perfume—cheap perfume, at that. 

She slides off a strap of her gaudy, sparkling gown, looking intently in my direction. 

“You want to know why I was there tonight, don't you?” She smiles, again, that little ghost appears upon her lips, driving me wild. 

“Yah, why is a lady like you tramping at a bar with all the common broads?” I ask, leering at the bare skin of her shoulder.

“Hm, common broads.” She repeats, placing a tacky varnished finger on her hollowed cheek, amused. “What if I told you I am a common broad?”

“Yer joking!” I say, heaving a hearty laugh. The idea was preposterous. 

“No, monseigneur. 'Tis no joke.” She answers immediately, if somewhat sadly. “I was born as common as any of the gals in that bar tonight, is fact.”

She proceeded to tell me how it is she earned—and I mean earned—her title. Ya see, she was once a prostitute at a bordello in the southern part of Italy. Did lots to gain some infamy there. And there was this Sicilian, a Count, sir. He was known among the region for his vices. Heavy drinker, even heavier smoker. Loved the little tricks as much as I do, if not more. 

Of course, this was all long ago. She was a youth back then, about sixteen. But was in the business since the age of ten. Something about her mother being a madam, forcing her in the trade. Anyway, she met this guy, he was really taken with her. Was a daily visitor, sir, every day in and out like clockwork. 

Two years later, he leaves his wife and children, marries the chick and comes to Lutz. The scandal ruined his reputation back home (as if it hadn't been grave enough already). So he comes here with the babe. 

She, of course, has no intention of settling with some disgusting old Count (no offense to your kin, sir). But he has money. She's been poor all her life. The lady, sir, she tries to poison the Count. Laces his food with small amounts of arsenic each day for months.

I tell 'er, should've used strychnine. Hell, cantarella. Slide that in his cookies and see how quick he goes, I say. But she didn't know much of these matters back then.

Anyway, it's not going fast enough. The Count is sick, but not dying. Meanwhile, she ain't getting any younger, and he still expects her to deliver. It was one thing when she was a whore, but now she was a lady—ya'd be surprised how a woman's mindset changes with her status, sir.

One night, she has enough of his liquor-stench kisses, his hairy pawing at her supple breasts, his forceful entries. She snaps. Grabs a large knife from her bedside (it was habit for her to keep one close—being a whore is risky business, sir), stabs him in the back like Brutus did Caesar. Rather grisly, sir.

The Count doubles over in shock. Hurls curses at her, names of every sort. She takes the knife from his back and does him in the stomach. Really slices him open, sir. Twists the dagger in there, her hands smeared in his blood. He gasps in horror at her, coughing heavily, his black eyes transfixed upon her. 

She digs in the incision, takes out his entrails, gives 'em a hearty squeeze and deposits them in his mouth. Really shoves them in there, like she's feeding him sausage links or somethin', makes him choke on his own intestines. 

By this point, he is dead. But she doesn't stop, sir. She takes out his heart with the same dagger. Really cuts him deep. Next morning, she boils the thing and eats it for breakfast with some artichokes and beets. Spins some story about a mystery attacker doing him in, cries at the funeral and everything. Even orders the coroner to set aside a small amount of his blood and place it in a vial, so she can wear it 'round her pretty neck. 

She shows me the vial. It dangles from her stately neck, in silver, her little trophy. 

I feed 'er a little story of my own, which you will know in due time, sir. Patience is key.

The lady then undresses and does me the same. My leather trench coat joins her garish gown in kissing the floor as she sits astride my lap. 

Her lips taste like poorly aged wine (incidentally, what she had been downing all evening, with the exception of the vodka and the homemade brew) when I kiss her. She leaves a ghost of pink on my own thin, pruny lips as she devours me. Sticks her tongue in my mouth and probes me, the smell of sour grapes reaching my willing nose. She tosses me back upon the bed, runs one of them polished fingers down the hairs on my chest as I become aroused. 

Next thing I know she is working me like a horse. I sit back and watch her bounce atop me, feeling her clench my throbbing engine in her. She had more control than anyone I ever met, she did, and she bites into my neck, leaving a pristine bruise in shades of yellowed puce in place (it still resides, in fact).

It is all fun and games when she leads, her raven hair swaying wildly as her elegant bob becomes disheveled, the white pearls around her neck whipping against her chest as it bobs up and down. 

Finally, I feel like I'm about to finish. She has me as sore as she was. I turn the tables to her game, flip 'er over like a card. Pin her to the bed and thrust into her before pulling my cloistered member from the depths of her oyster. 

I grasp her stringy necklace in my thick hands and rip it from her neck, sending the little pearls flying across the room before they hit the floor like heavy drops of rain. 

I migrate to her torso and ejaculate just below her creased neck, my juices dripping to her faded chest as she relishes in my spray. 

“How is that for a string of pearls?” I ask as I flash her a fanged grin.


	7. 7: Count Dmitri Desgoffe-und-Taxis To J.G. Jopling, Esq. (Lutz. December 25, 19--)

As a point of fact, I have recently discovered 'Boy With Apple' has gone missing. As usual, my useless sisters were of no aid, remarking on the disappearance only after I had noted the fact. 

I was beyond furious when I discovered its disappearance, much more when it was made known to me that those three idiots had noted its vanishing before I ever did.

In the midst of my ire, I may have brought an end to one of our own stock of art, which was used by the thieves as a decoy for the missing 'Boy With Apple.' Not to worry, however. It was a dreadful painting. I swiftly brought it to its rightful end—I had to take my anger out on something, I suppose. 

So, that is what I had as a surprise this Christmas season. As if it weren't enough to find out the fucking faggot had inherited 'Boy With Apple,' and that the idiot Serge X. has gone missing.

It has not all been doom and gloom, however. I did have a bit of a reprieve—much-deserved—unexpected though it was.

You see, my mother had ordered a pair of shoes (unbeknownst to me) before her death, which as always were hand-made by some cobbler, and hand-delivered, in the old tradition. I suppose the girl doing the delivery of my mother's red shoes did not hear of her death, because she showed up as if all were well yesterday afternoon, led by none other than Clotilde (my guess is she did not know what to make of the happening). 

I was at the library when they arrived, having discovered 'Boy With Apple's disappearance the evening prior. As usual, in the event of a major disappointment, I was downing a glass of scotch, at my favourite red velvet chair, my bottle resting next to me at a nearby table. 

Clotilde appeared with this strange girl holding an elegantly adorned box in tow, and informed me she had been searching for me. She mentioned going to my room (it was a mess, admittedly) and, in the event of not finding me there, she figured I would be at the library (old habits die hard is all I've to say for myself). 

Anyway, she brought this girl with her, and the latter stated her business. 

“M-Mr. Desgoffe-und-Taxis...” The girl spoke, uncertain, her dirty-blonde hair bound by a red velvet bow. “I have a pair of shoes to deliver...”

She unwrapped the little box with utmost care, revealing a pair of red shoes resting atop some ornate gold paper. 

“I see.” I took a sip from my scotch, unimpressed. (By this time, I was already about halfway into my bottle, and somewhat drunk). “And what do you want me to do about that?”

“Well...” The young girl looked to me with her starry blue eyes, as if to plead for some sort of satisfactory answer. “I think they were your mother's order, and since she is not here, I thought perhaps you could take the parcel in her place...” 

I held back the desire to expel a boisterous laugh, instead taking another hearty sip from my glass. 

“Dear child, my mother is dead.” I said, attempting to appear grim, holding back a small smile. “She wouldn't have any use for those shoes, unless they offer tap-dancing classes in Hell...”

The girl appeared to be taken aback by my remark, trembling slightly.

“It was just a joke.” I tried to repair the damage and win back her trust. “Let me take a look at those shoes... I think my sister Carolina wears the same size as my dear old mum. Perhaps I'll gift her the pair as a Christmas present...” 

I dismissed Clotilde, leaving the young girl and I the sole two inside our stately library. 

The girl in question, I will not attempt deception, did irritate me a bit. She had a somewhat familiar air to her, which I could not quite place, but something about her dirty blonde hair, milk-white skin, and shining blue eyes evoked the feeling I had seen those features somewhere before. 

“Why don't you come over here, so I can take a closer look...” I said, a somewhat haughty smirk lining my drunken face as I gestured for her to approach. 

She did precisely as she was told, holding the large box in her little hands as she neared me, her red bow bobbing with every small step she took in my direction, her mink fur collar glistening like silk as every stray ray of light laid itself against it.

I sat her on my lap (surprisingly, she held no protest—I don't think she knew the implications of this move at that moment), taking a whiff of her powdered hair as I pretended to take a look at her stupid shoes.

“Oh, yes, I think she'll love them...” I played my part, taking a shoe in my hand and examining it closely. It was the ugliest shoe I've ever seen.

My hand slid up the hem of her dress, pressing against the fabric of her underwear as she looked back to me, horrified. I retreated, thinking it best to progress slowly, and returned my attention to the product she'd come to sell. 

“Yes, I think she will adore them....” I purred, letting my other hand land on her lap, quickly raising it in such a manner that it swiftly brushed against her small breast.

She looked to me, her bright blue eyes sheltering a speck of uncertainty as she attempted to square me up, not quite knowing what she'd just gotten herself into. 

I wrapped my hands around her hips, pressing her close to my growing member, in such a way it brushed against her bottom—and instantly, she knew what was about to come. 

The brave little starling tried to break free from my embrace, but it was to no avail. By this time, I was more than halfway into the aforementioned bottle of scotch, and lusting quite heavily after the helpless little girl caught in my web.

My yearning hands slowly unbuttoned the smooth little caramel buttons of her coat, shedding it from her slender form before doing the same to my own, my seal fur robe unfurling as it revealed my bare chest, much to her terror (I discerned she had never before seen a shirtless man, from the look on her face).

I next pulled her frock from her, revealing a frilly pair of undergarments with matching bows, which sent a rush of electricity down my spine as I turned her over, setting her on the red velvet couch I had previously occupied, placing myself atop her as I fully discarded my seal fur pajamas. 

My long hand reached for the half-empty bottle of scotch as I raised it to my lips, taking a generous swig before I showered her pink lips with its emission, hungrily kissing the residue from her plump rose petals as the scotch rained over the rest of her body.

I carefully licked the amber trail from her bare breasts, which slightly raised as my tongue made warm contact with her shivering skin, tasting the bitter fluid as it settled in her slender form, trailing all the way down to the sacred mound from which she split in two.

I looked up at her as I licked down her torso. To my stupefaction, I was met with nothing but terror, which sent a cold flick of ire inside me ablaze. I became furious, grabbing a green apple (which I had intended to eat, but had set aside in favour of the scotch I preferred) and shoving it between her rosy lips, making her bite down upon it before yanking it from her lips and doing the same myself, its sour juices trailing down my chin as I made my decisive incision. 

The bitten apple was promptly discarded, bluntly hitting the floor as I leaned closer to the terrified girl, finding the split between her thighs and mounting her. I fucked her quickly, relentlessly crashing upon her open thighs like a wave coming to shore, feeling myself tear inside her as she whimpered in pain. Yet her cries only served to excite me further, as my motions became swifter, more forceful, my hands pinning her to the velvety couch as I inched further inside her, showering her with scotch-scented kisses as I thrust my hips, withdrawing little gasps and grunts from her own pallid lips as I melted my body into hers. 

As I felt myself on the cusp of finishing, I looked into her blue eyes, which widened with fear as I pulled out from within her, brusquely flipping her over and entering her anew. 

This time, however, I buried my scepter within her tiny little rosebud, pressing firmly as I conquered my way within, her pained screams filling the air as I twisted her little nipples, pulling her body as close to mine as it could muster before I relinquished my seed in her, shuddering with each slowed motion of my final thrusts.

The little treasure was sent back home by Clotilde that night, still clutching the small box which held the red shoes she had come to deliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The girl in question is Gustl H., niece of M. Gustave H, and granddaughter of his father (who was an impoverished cobbler, as per Fiennes' imaginings of M. Gustave's past).


End file.
